


The Thrall, the Knave and the Knight

by eldritcher



Series: Red Falls The Dew On These Silver Leaves [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:07:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then I say, bless Macalaurë for loving him."</p><p>For we are thralls, knaves and knights. And Maedhros chose his station in life carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thrall, the Knave and the Knight

The Thrall, The Knave And The Knight

 

On nights like these, when the moon sang bright and high above on its velvet spread, with Varda’s stars adorning the silver glory with their twinkling, I missed my wife and I missed Turkáno. A sliver of discontentment ran through me. Then I thought of Tyelko. He had lost his love to an unknown fate. I repressed a shudder. I knew that my wife’s legacy lived in my son and that Turkáno remained unharmed in his city. Poor comfort it was, but it was more than what Tyelko had.

The swearing – yes, that was why I was contemplating the moon and the skies instead of going to sleep like a sensible soul. The swearing shocked me. I listened in rising embarrassment to the slurred string of profanities ensuing from the lips that had embraced politeness and refinement under the sunlight. Grateful for the deserted chambers in the royal wing, I slipped on a robe and walked purposefully to the door, slid it open, strode up the chamber and knocked once at my destination. That I did not receive an acknowledgment did not hinder me. Instead, I put to good use the skills that I had learnt from my father and manoeuvred the door open. 

I bit back a remonstration when I saw the state of him. He had never looked particularly sane after the return, even Macalaurë had admitted that. But now he looked as one who had undergone several purges without freeing himself from the poison. There were the bloodshot, bleary eyes that held only vague recognition as they regarded me. I wished Macalaurë had been here. He would have never allowed things to reach this stage. I wished Carnistro had been there. He had a sensible, blunt approach and would have thought of some solution to prevent this rapid deterioration.

As it happened, only I was there and I had to deal with the repercussions. I wished I were half as able as Macalaurë or Carnistro in stalling the inferno that would soon overwhelm my companion. 

“Worry not, I have not chosen any of our cousin’s less illustrious vices,” the slurred voice reassured me. “There are many vices to choose from, when one is as sin-ridden as Findekáno. Since I am denied one vice of his, let me make do with another. A flawless bargain, would you not say?”

When my son lost his senses to drink, he would fall silent and retire to the darker corners. His drinking had never called for my interference. So there I was, utterly at a loss as to what to do with a brother who turned into a philosopher upon intoxication by wine. 

“You never can do anything normal, can you?” I grumbled, picking my way through the mess of clothing and scrolls. “Even when you get drunk, you have to do it in a different manner.”

“Commiserate with me, my dear brother.” 

He made to move left in order to offer a space by his side upon the bed. I called out a soft warning. But the next moment found the fool upon the floor, looking dazed and befuddled, his eyes large in the middle of the gaunt visage.

“How we fall, with none to grasp our hands!” he exclaimed.

I suppressed a groan and knelt beside him. He was huddled in what I had come to think of as his trademark position, with his knees drawn up and chin resting upon them, grey eyes trying hard to focus. 

“Findekáno’s vices are not advisable for those on the road to convalescence,” I chided him, lending him my shoulder and settling him back upon the bed. “Now why don’t you try to sleep? I will try to clean the mess before I retire myself.”

“And who will clean my soul, brother most wise?” he asked in that haunted tone which made me want to ride straight to Angband and challenge Moringotto to a duel.

“I doubt that the soul is affected by injudicious alcoholism. If it were so, Findekáno would have no soul at all by now.”

“Who is to say that he does?” 

I took that as a rhetorical question and did not reply, instead concentrating upon the untidy mess of bottles, scrolls and clothes. 

“I knew it was an ambush.”

Icy shivers ran down my spine and I straightened from my task to turn about, and stricken, I looked down upon the sorry spectacle he made. He seemed far away from the chamber, from my presence and from his own being.

“Maitimo?” I whispered, feeling the past creep in once again along with the cold draught from the window.

“Yes.” He buried his face in his hand and said bleakly, “I had to go. It was not for the Silmarilli. It was not for the Oath. It was for something that proved more than worth the risks taken and endured.”

Fear gripped me in its cold prison and I walked to the bed, extending a hand to clasp his shoulder to make sure that he existed there, before me, not whole, not sane, but still alive. 

“What are you talking of?”

“I knew it was an ambush. I delivered my fellow warriors who trusted me till the end to their gory deaths. I gave up myself to the Enemy. I wanted to know something badly. And everything else was worth it.”

I slumped down beside him and listened in horror to his tale. I had long wondered, everyone had long wondered, why he had played into the parley offer. He was a strategist without equals. How had he not foreseen it? 

“What did you want to know?” I asked quietly. 

I was horrified. But if I let him know that, it would be the end of this conversation. Drink had loosened his tongue. I would never hear of this again. 

“How deeply Melkor loves,” he whispered, drawing away his hand to meet my eyes. “He loves her yet. He loves her above all. That shall be our salvation.”

I resisted the urge to wring him hard and settled on mild incredulity as I asked in a tight voice, “How does that aid us, brother?”

He laughed, mirthlessly and coldly, before saying in a hollow voice, “With that weapon shall I craft my strategy, Atarinkë. They shall pay for everything. Think that I grieve not for Father? That I grieve not for my lost hand? That I grieve not for my innocence slaughtered? That I mourn not Findekáno’s fall from grace? I do, but not as deeply as I should. I am content, for I know that I shall be avenged.” 

If this was what came of ceasing his activities with Findekáno, I would rather that he indulged in those acts every moment of the day. Frightened for his sanity and even more terrified by his cold words, I did the best thing I could. I sent for a sleeping draught and ensured that he would not wake till dawn. 

Then I remained sentry, watching his features in repose, torn between fear and anger. He had delivered himself into the Enemy’s hands knowingly? The death of his comrades, the loss of his hand, the trauma we had endured, and the scars that would never fade from his heart; all to learn the true nature of Melkor’s regard for Varda! 

I had no choice but to believe his words. He was an appalling liar though he was a pastmaster at crafting alternate, glossed over versions of the truth. He had then spoken the truth. 

How had he discerned the Vala’s feelings? I realised that I did not want to know. I did not understand my brother and for once, I was glad that it was so. 

He rallied the next day, sent for a draught to relieve his headache, and went about his affairs with the usual flair. We spoke during dinner and during councils. He did not seem to remember the drunken confession and I saw no necessity to bring it to his notice.

 

I did not tell anyone about the revelation, though I always made excuses to return to Himring whenever I could to ascertain his state of sanity for myself. I marvelled at the many guises of diplomat, ruler, brother, cousin, warrior and uncle that he adopted flawlessly. 

Macalaurë had been the only one to see the truth that lay beneath the guise. But I believe that even he did not know all. If he had, he would have taken matters into his hands instead of letting our brother barricade himself behind politeness and detachment. 

We had all convened at Himring before the war. It was a torment for most of us who knew the truth, to see Maitimo negotiating a narrow road of composure as he tried to strike a balance between Macalaurë’s ruthless, though as of yet, chaste possessiveness and Findekáno’s unsubtle seduction. 

“I cannot help thinking that we should let Findekáno and Macalaurë fight to first blood that duel they were keen to have,” Carnistro remarked acidly as he sat with Maitimo and I, the three of us going over battle plans.

“Other than boosting the victor’s pride and ruffling the other’s temper, what intention could it possibly serve?” Maitimo asked sardonically. “We have enough on our plate without endeavouring to soothe their considerably inflated egos. They have never got along well and they are never going to. We cannot command mountains to bow, can we?”

“Spare me the philosophy so early in the day, brother. But I agree on the size of their egos.” Carnistro chuckled and so did I. “Yet I cannot help thinking that the duel would resolve a delicate matter once and for all. A matter concerning possession, one might say?”

The quill fell from Maitimo’s fingers and he scowled as Carnistro and I laughed. 

“Sometimes I wonder why I did not simply return with Arafinwë!” Maitimo querulously complained. “A coward I would have been, but a coward at peace!”

“Oh, do calm, brother.” I leant over to pat his shoulder. “You know we cannot resist the opportunity of seeing you blush. It becomes you.”

“Then I am glad.” He tossed his head back haughtily, his silver eyes narrowing in disdain. “Because I have seen you blush, and it does not become you at all.”

“Will you let them duel?” Carnistro asked, smothering a grin.

“How is it that I have failed since the beginning to impress upon them that I am no possession to be fought over?” Maitimo grumbled. 

“One would think that their charming possessiveness was a cause to preen about,” I remarked and Maitimo muttered something derogatory about being fated to be accidentally born into the eternally depraved family. 

“Carnilótë knows,” Carnistro cut into Maitimo’s tirade gently. “She wants you to find peace or a semblance of it.”

“Peace I shall have when she reunites with Macalaurë instead of staying with Círdan,” Maitimo said bleakly. “I cannot bear this wretched hope. I prefer that I have nothing to dare hope for.” He blinked his eyes in horror as he realised what he had given away. 

“Tell him.” I rose to my feet and walked over to the window. There, down in the courtyard, Tyelko was negotiating yet again between Macalaurë and Findekáno. 

“I cannot!” Maitimo said, leaving his chair and pacing angrily. “She loves him, Atarinkë. She loves him.”

“After all that you have let slip,” Carnistro huffed, “can you deny that you bear him the same regard?”

An elegant hand came up in a fiery gesture of protest and the pacing continued. I was about to throw in an argument of my own when Maitimo said quietly, “There are reasons why I cannot cease this dance. She has brought normalcy to his life and I can never bring myself to end that. He is brave. But he considered it immoral and forbidden even before he was married. Now he is married, and I cannot bring down guilt upon his heart by forcing him to choose between what he feels is right and what he fears is cursed.”

He made as if to continue, but shook his head ruefully and joined me by the window, his eyes cast eastwards to the dark shape of the hell where he was made anew. 

“It is foresight, isn’t it?” Carnistro asked softly. “What have you seen, brother?” 

“Children,” Maitimo whispered and pain starkly came evident for a fraction of an instant on his drawn features. “I can never call a child mine. But he can. I will not destroy that chance, I could not.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I loved Turkáno, but I would always love my poor wife more because she had given me what he could not. She had given me progeny. Macalaurë was our father’s son too; in fact, of us all, he had taken after our father the most. Would he forswear children to grant what Maitimo craved?

“I wish she returned,” Maitimo said finally. “My defences are failing. If he confronts me one more time, I fear I shall succumb. Need is a terrible thing, you know, especially when it is compounded by veneration.”

“Veneration?” I asked curiously. 

His eyes turned distant in contemplation as he replied dully, “I am a lost cause, and he knows it. He could have had my body a long time ago if he wished to. But he wants my nonexistent heart. Such baseless nobility inspires veneration in anyone.”

“What happened to your heart?” Carnistro barked, rising and coming around to join us. “Now, enough is enough. For once, listen to us, will you?” 

Maitimo set his jaw and glared half-heartedly. The poor wretch, I mused bleakly, he must have been frightened indeed to seek our counsel, though he was currently putting on a very serious act of not being interested in our advice.

“Tell him what you can,” I said quietly. “Let him decide. It will be over then, for better or worse.”

“It would be better than this wretched wait, that I cannot deny,” Maitimo conceded quietly. 

Then, as I returned to the maps and as Carnistro walked to the grate to stoke the fire, a wry chuckle escaped Maitimo and he asked ruefully, “Perhaps a token of appreciation would be appropriate?”

Carnistro guffawed and I grinned at the suggestion and then Carnistro said merrily, “From someone as romantic as you are, that would indeed be an appropriate gesture. Do you need some helpful hints as to what might be the best token to indicate courting?” Innuendo had crept into his tone and I smothered my laughter with much effort. 

Grey eyes fixed him with a scandalised look before Maitimo said imperiously, “I am sure that I can manage. If you recall, I was courting Ingwe’s granddaughter once upon a time.”

“Macalaurë would throw you off the ramparts if you gave him flowers,” I could not help teasing him. 

“I am fortunate then that there are no flowers to be found upon short notice in the vicinity of the castle,” Maitimo said dryly. 

 

Later that week, at the official reception accorded to Findekáno, Carnistro and I could not help noticing the fine robes Macalaurë had donned for the occasion. They became him well, and were of a material and colour he would have normally avoided. 

“Are robes considered a token of courting?” Carnistro asked me curiously, because I had enthusiastically courted a woman for years before giddily marrying her and had visited Grandfather’s large library to devour books on courting practices. 

“Not that I know of,” I chuckled. “But I am glad to see that he forewent flowers.”

“Macalaurë would not throw him off the ramparts.” 

“But he has an acid tongue and by the end of his tirade, Maitimo might have thrown himself off the ramparts,” I pointed out wisely. 

Matchmaking was not an activity I liked, something my son was grateful to me for. But how could I resist interfering in this long impasse of theirs? Carnistro and Carnilótë had decided that the time for us to meddle had come. Ambarto had aided us silently, without ever voicing support. Ambarussa had taken up neutrality. 

Tyelko vehemently opposed us, and with good reason. But it was not that which took me by surprise. What startled me was Findekáno’s passivity. For once, he did not try to press his advantage. He clearly had an advantage, of course, with Maitimo going out of his way to be agreeable and charming to our cousin. 

“He is inebriated,” Carnistro remarked. “The fool simply cannot resist destroying his chances at happiness. He is fortunate that Findekáno is in a strange humour.”

“I feel he is more disturbed than he can bear,” I said quietly. “He did tell us so in his own meandering manner.”

“Well, he is being a fool.” Carnistro had never minced words. “Macalaurë does not give up on lost causes.”

“I wouldn’t call Maitimo a lost cause,” I said defensively. “He is merely afraid of what shall ensue.”

Carnistro said in a low, pained voice, “He is a lost cause, brother. Look into his eyes. The truth runs deep there, beneath the pretence he dons. It was not merely his body that he pawned for his cause. It was his mind and his soul too. We cannot save him, Atarinkë. But if we can ease his pain in any manner, forbidden or not, then we must. That is why I did not protest to his wretched games with Findekáno. I cannot deny that they alleviated his mental torment. Now, if Macalaurë’s regard brings about that end, then I say, bless Macalaurë for loving him."

"I agree," intervened Findekáno's quiet voice marred by grief and broken by regret. "It was fated to be so, I fear. The thrall," he nodded at Maitimo who was speaking to one of his many acquaintances, "the knave," he smiled bitterly, "and the knight," his dark eyes flickered uneasily towards where Macalaurë stood with Ambarto. 

"You disgrace yourself, cousin," I said softly. "You are no knave."

"Am I not?" he laughed coldly. "I know what I am on the game board, cousin. I was pawned, as were us all. To me fell the lot of the knave." Before Carnistro or I could intervene, he continued with painful sincerity, "And I regret it not, no more than he regrets being the thrall. Strange, is it not, that Macalaurë drew the best of the lot and he fears his fate?"

 

After Nírnaeth Arnoediad, Macalaurë had a falling out with our eldest brother and it was left to my younger brothers and I to mediate between them. 

“Why did you wake half the camp with your screams?” I asked Maitimo as I stepped into his tent. 

He glared at the tent pegs before muttering, “Perhaps the fact that I was tied down to a tent peg does not weigh in your opinion.”

“I seem to remember a time when you would have revelled at being restrained,” I remarked sardonically, delighting in bringing the flush to his cheeks which rendered him youthful and impossibly innocent in my eyes.

“Fortunately never to tent pegs,” he murmured, bending down to pick up a fallen scroll and recovering his composure in the interval.

“You cannot keep doing this,” I remonstrated gently. “There shall come a day when he demands everything.”

A tormented sigh was the only reply. I shoved aside my battle weariness and walked to his side, patting a slumped shoulder in sympathy.

“There is nothing in me that I can give him. He can have my body, in any manner he sees fit. But many have already had the same.”

“Your love,” I reminded him.

“It is a wretched thing,” he said in haunted tone. “His regard for me was born in Valinor, in a time of gold. It is divine and I am unjustifiably blessed to be able to bask in it. Mine was born here, in these lands, amidst blood, torment, tears, fall and shame. It is wholly of this unforgiving earth and he suffers everyday on that account, and he will have no reprieve even after the end.” 

It was true. Regard born on this side of the sea was doomed. I thought of Turkáno and shuddered. My love for my wife was hallowed by those golden days, by Laurelin and Tyelperion and by the Gods themselves. But my love for Turkáno was forged by the sun and cooled by the moon, and consummated upon this harsh soil under the curse of Mandos. 

But I could not tell my brother that I agreed. So I huffed and scoffed and called him a very imaginative fool.“Stop being melodramatic.” I shoved him towards the mattress. “Now I must go and pull him out of his sulking.”

A wan smile lit his features and he replied mischievously, “Easier said than done.”

“I have half a mind to give up on both of you.”

His features turned solemn and he murmured, “I have often wondered why you did not.”

“Nothing as entertaining to onlookers as an unconsummated relationship of two proud fools,” I winked at him.

 

“What have I done?” he whispered, stricken. “What have I done?” he repeated in that terrified voice as his trembling fingers clenched themselves upon my cloak and his tears fell hot and fast upon my cheeks. 

I closed my eyes. Carnistro was dead. Tyelko was dead. And I was dying. The cry of a falcon without the caves tore my heart. I would never see my falcon again. It was as Maitimo had once said; love born on these shores was doomed. 

“Please, please, I beg you.” His face fell to my neck and I brought a shaking, disoriented hand to his unruly mane. “Please don’t.”

“You should not have forewarned Dior,” I whispered harshly. I did not want to die. My son had only me. What would he do? Tears, bitter and inconsolable, I shed.

He did not offer an excuse, or an apology. But he cried, and I knew that I had already forgiven him. 

“I know you had your reasons,” I murmured, feeling light and serene all of a sudden. I would be united with Father and with Irissë. One day, Turkáno would join me. One day, my son would join me. One day, it would be all of us in the Void. All of us. Together. I sighed. The pain was receding rapidly, leaving behind blankness in its wake.

“Don’t pawn Macalaurë as you pawned all the rest of us.” I grabbed the crimson mane and forced his bloodshot eyes to meet my wavering gaze. “You will not pawn him whatever happens, do you hear me? The thrall, the knaves and the knight,” I laughed wheezily, "our cousin's words make sense to me now. You have pawned the thrall and the knaves. Will you pawn your knight now?"

“He shall not be harmed,” he whispered fervently. “He shall be saved, at whatever cost I have to bear. He is the knight, after all.” 

“Good,” I mumbled, and wished that I did not feel so thirsty. I did not ask my brother for water, though. He looked shaken enough, I reasoned. To send him hunting for water in these strange caves would not help his nerves. He really was the most infuriating creature, I decided. Tyelko was dead because of him. Carnistro was dead because of him. I wanted to see my mother one last time. I had sailed east without taking leave of her. Most impolite of me, wasn’t it? But my wife had been slain and I was distracted by Father’s madness. I supposed Mother did not hold the negligence against me. 

“Atarinkë!” A hushed whisper brought me back to the pain and the caves. 

“Artanis,” I murmured as I recognised the voice. “Tell Macalaurë that he should take a riding crop to Maitimo’s hide if he ever plans an invasion like this again. Suicidal, isn’t he, Artanis?”

Maitimo flinched and gripped my wrist so tightly that I feared he would kill me before the blood loss and the wounds did. Artanis bent to kiss my forehead, and I was reminded of days in Tirion and Formenos when she would rush in and out of the house on escapades with Macalaurë, bribing us for silence with these chaste kisses. 

“Tell the pagan that I shall come back from the void if he ever ill treats you,” I told her sternly. 

I did not approve of her marriage, of course. But what was done was done. I could not reverse the marriage no more than I could reverse this battle.

“I will tell him so,” Artanis replied brokenly. 

“Keep an eye on Telpë, would you?” I caught her wrist and beseeched her. “Maitimo here cannot be trusted at all. He delivered us to slaughter, you see. I cannot believe that I survived the wars of Beleriand only to fall in a fray in these damned caves.”

“Please,” Maitimo begged me, but I was feeling uncharitable again. It might have had something to do with the fact that I could no longer see the cave roof clearly. A blur of colours and shapes all dancing eerily. 

“Telpë shall ever have my counsel and friendship, I swear.” 

Artanis’s words reassured me and I sighed in relief. She did not mastermind plans as Maitimo did. Telpë was safe under her care. She would not sacrifice him for greater causes. 

Their voices faded, and blurred images receded into darkness. Hands gripping my own, tears and kisses pressed in apology, regret and fear upon my cheeks. 

Then I saw nothing, and heard nothing, and felt nothing, and there was nothing.


End file.
